McQueen moved not from the spot where he fell, for the shock he had received had doubled him up, and though his agonies were deep, he retained his consciousness. Brennan, suffering himself, set to work to alleviate, if possible, those mortal pains which at times made the corporal writhe and groan. His hand came on a well of blood, which told him, if the flow were not immediately stopped, the closing scene would soon be over. His plan of action in this extremity was quickly fixed, and taking off his shirt he tore it in strips, and tying them into one length bound it round his comrade. This, however, was not enough, for the blood still oozed through the bandage, and tearing away as much as he could of the corporal’s shirt without increasing his pangs, he knotted this also, as he added shred to shred, and plied it over the wound. This was the most he could do, except to encourage his spirit to bear the trial with the manliness his comrades would expect to hear he had exercised. “My head feels cold,” said he faintly. Both had lost their caps in the violent run they made to the ditch. Brennan instantly took off his coatee and turbaned it round the poor fellow’s head. “Here is a little bag with fourteen shillings in it,” said the corporal, as he released it from his neck. “Give it to my wife. It will never be my happiness to see her or the children.” This he said with an affectionate but choked utterance. “Tell her,” he added in a stronger voice, “I’m sorry I shall not see Sebastopol fall.” “Why not? there’s plenty of skill in the camp to cure you,” returned Brennan in a tone of mingled sympathy and confidence.